


I'm More than Willing to Offer Myself

by st_aurafina



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Light Bondage, M/M, Oral Sex, Rope Bondage, Treat, dom john reese, sub harold finch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-16 21:06:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14818862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/st_aurafina/pseuds/st_aurafina
Summary: John can see Harold needs a circuit breaker, if they're going to keep saving lives.





	I'm More than Willing to Offer Myself

**Author's Note:**

  * For [talkingtothesky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/gifts).



> Title from Fall at Your Feet by Crowded House. 
> 
> Thank you to my beta.

Harold doesn't need this very often but John can always see it coming. It's those days when he's been brooding over things he has lost, or when a number has turned out perpetrator rather than victim. Harold has some very specific ideas about his own responsibilities and when – in John's opinion – the rest of the world is stupid enough to let Harold down, Harold will twist himself into knots with hindsight, trying to find ways he could have done things differently. 

There's no use explaining to Harold that it's the world that is imperfect, not him. Nor is there use in pointing out that he is on a self-destructive path. John has spent his own time on those paths, and pursued them more wilfully than Harold is here. 

John is half-expecting that Harold will need him today. This mission is turning ugly, and Harold falls silent on the line while he is investigating the hard drive of their number's stepfather. It's the kind of drawn-in half-breath that means Harold has found something that makes him want to burn down the entire internet, confiscate the world's toy until it learns to do better. After that, and while John aka Detective Stills is dealing with CPS, Harold communicates in monosyllables and does that thing where he anticipates John's needs before John has figured them out. There's a car waiting for John by the time he's handed their young number off to a social worker, and the well-paid man behind the wheel drives him in silence to the enormous apartment that Harold bought for him. It's meant to be a message for John, but it's really a message for the whole world. _Leave me alone._

John tips the driver though the man tries to refuse; Harold pays his people very well. Once the car has turned the corner John goes to the garage and gets on his bike. He knows Harold is watching – Harold is always watching – but Harold makes sure his intentions are clear when he stops the parking garage door from opening. John pulls off his helmet and stares into the security camera above the door. 

"I'm coming over," he says, clearly and slowly because these cameras don't have sound and Harold will be lip-reading. "I'll walk if I have to but I'd rather not." 

There's a moment – a long moment where John can feel Harold tussling with his own stubbornness – and then the door activates. While he waits for it to roll up, John says, "Thanks. I'll be there soon." 

The ride across town is uncomplicated and swift. John wonders if Harold has messed with the traffic signals to get him there faster but when he sets foot in the library, it's clear that nothing has been resolved. There's heaviness to the atmosphere, and a stifled quiet that is anything but still. Harold's typing is like a percussive symphony, and inform of his mood, if you know what to listen for. When Harold is typing fast and silent, he's destroying someone's life. Much like an assassin's footsteps, John thinks. He's careful to make sure his tread is clearly audible on the stairs. 

The room is dark, lit only by screens. Harold doesn't acknowledge John's presence. John would think his fingers weren't moving from the way they hover just above the keyboard, but the rapid movement of data on the monitors tells another story. 

"Finish it up, Finch," John says. "It's not your problem anymore." 

Harold's head shifts minutely. At first it's the only thing that shifts in the tableau before John, then, one by one across the monitors, windows start collapsing. It's only happening because Harold is well aware that John will physically pick him up if that's what it takes to separate him from the keyboard. They've negotiated this before, and these days John leaves Harold a little time to close things down safely. 

"I believe I made myself quite clear, Mr Reese. I don't need you here now," Harold says into the growing darkness. The irony that he says this while he's shutting down programs apparently escapes him. 

John steps closer to the table. "When we're working a number, you get to tell me where to go and what to do. Not now." 

There's no response to this, but the screens eventually fall dark. Harold sits with his hands curled closed on his legs, faintly illuminated by the various LEDs and power indicators. 

"That person is reprehensible," Harold says eventually, his back still to John. "Why would you stop me from destroying him utterly?" 

John stays very still. "The same reason you'd stop me from doing it." This is the point that they get to every time, that he holds Harold to the same standards that Harold holds him. This is the safety net that they prepare for each other. 

Harold is silent. All John can hear is the faint hum of fans as the servers and hard drives drop into sleep mode.

Harold isn't good with feelings, John gets that. He has only to gaze around the library to gauge just how bad Harold is at processing the emotional. They don't have time, though, for Harold to deal with what he perceives as the world's problems. Just as John can't allow the indulgence of drinking his demons away, Harold can't physically stay up all night in the cold of the library wreaking havoc on a small scale. They'll have a new number tomorrow, and another the next day. What Harold needs now is a circuit breaker, something that will allow perspective to return. 

When the last of the fans have fallen silent, John puts his hands on Harold's shoulders, which are stiff and high. 

"Come on," he says. "Let's get on with it." Harold stands, uneasy and obviously in pain, but for a moment leans his forehead on John's chest. John takes a deep breath – the degree of trust Harold puts in him always takes him by surprise – and gently strokes Harold's shoulder blades. John knows he is a shield right now, protecting Harold from the rest of the world while he is vulnerable. He will never let anyone hurt Harold. He'll die keeping this man safe. 

Harold still complains, all the way down the aisles of books. "I just don't see why we need to bother with all this." 

"I know," says John, right up close behind him so he has no space to bolt. 

"It's ridiculous, it's all so ridiculous." 

John steers him towards the rear of the library. "Not the point, Harold." At this end of the library, Finch becomes Harold and the last of his resistance falls away. 

In the room where they sleep or tend wounds, there's a couple of camp beds with neatly folded blankets, and an incongruous antique chaise. Harold walks towards the chaise like it's a dentist's chair: resigned and also a little relieved that something is going to change, at least. While he's perched on the edge of the padded seat, John eases him out of his jacket and waistcoat, takes his tie, unbuttons the shirt, undoes his pants. This is about making Harold feel better, so he slides the garments onto a hanger and puts the hanger on a nail in the wall. He hammered that nail in after the first time, when Harold had gone from languid and flushed to horrified at finding his clothes puddled on the floor. John had laughed at Harold's outrage, which almost ruined the mood, except that it gave John the opportunity to coax a smile out of him, the smile that Harold keeps only for John. 

Right now, though, Harold is hunched and miserable in his undershirt and boxers. John pushes Harold gently towards the curved back of the chaise and when he's sure that he's settled and as comfortable as possible, John straddles the end of the chaise. He tilts his head, regarding Harold with a measuring gaze. 

"What?" says Harold irritably. 

John trails a finger along Harold's leg, over his knee, up the inside of his thigh. "I'm thinking about whether or not I'll use ropes this time." 

Harold's eyelids dip as John brushes the skin at the top of his thighs. "I suppose I don't have any say in that… oh." This last is soft and surprised, in response to John's thumb across the length of his cock. More comfortable seated on the solid form of the chaise, his hips buck and he reaches for John's hand. John's not sure if he means to pull it closer or push it away but either way Harold doesn't get to choose right now. 

He shifts out of reach, and says in a decided tone, "Definitely ropes, then." 

Harold snorts derisively, but out of the corner of his eye he follows John's movements around the room as if John is going to pounce immediately. Instead John flips on the radiator, gathers a blanket and puts it at the end of the chaise. 

"You've had to make too many decisions today, so you're going to let me manage things for a while." The ropes are neatly coiled in a box between the clawed feet of the chaise, and John reaches for a hank. "Besides, you're very pretty when you're helpless." 

That sends a flush of red rising up Harold's neck. These sorts of compliments startle and fascinate Harold, and his blushes are beguiling to John. It's true though: seeing Harold – Harold whose cool voice keeps John alive through mission after mission – tied and unable to resist the pleasure being lavished on his body is a wonder.

The solidity of the chaise provides good support for Harold's spine, and points to anchor the ropes. Harold's mood is already easing a little. He watches carefully as John loops ropes with expert skill through the woodworks scrolls of the chaise and then in comfortable but firm coils around Harold's wrists and elbows. 

Harold's chest is rising and falling at a faster pace now, and he fights the rope, testing the knots at his wrist with an index finger. When John drapes a length over his chest, Harold lets out a gasp that is almost a sob, but John moves quickly, pulling the ropes taut and anchoring them where Harold cannot reach. Then he stands and considers Harold's legs. 

There's a desperation to the way Harold moves his naked legs over the upholstery, turning them this way and that as if he can avoid John's grip. John gently presses Harold's ankles to hold them still. He doesn't like to tie them, not when a muscle spasm could do some serious damage. Instead, he puts one knee on either side of Harold's hips and leans in to kiss him. 

The trick is to take his time, working Harold's mouth open with his own, letting Harold's bad mood slowly dissipate, waiting as Harold becomes accustomed to the feel of John's suit on his own bare skin, and all the time reinforcing that there's nothing else Harold can do right now. All he can do is lie still and be kissed. And watch how much John enjoys kissing him. John knows things are going well when, down at the side of the chaise, Harold's fingers twitch as if he'd rather they were buried in John's hair. John smiles at him and kisses his neck, his collarbones, the little tuft of hair above the line of the undershirt. He puts one hand under the shirt, strokes the nipples while he's mouthing the soft skin behind Harold's ear. 

Harold arches up into the ropes over his chest, remembers he can't move, then lets his head fall against the chaise. 

"John," he says once, breathless. Then he's out of words, because John is kissing down his belly, pushing the shirt up to drag his teeth over the skin, following the thin line of hair to the waistband of Harold's boxers. Harold shudders all over, tries experimentally to thrust upwards, and is stopped by the ropes with a gasp of frustration. 

John grins at him and slips off the chaise to his knees so he can push the silk of Harold's boxers aside and ease out his cock. Harold is panting now; he's experienced first-hand how good John is at this, how much John loves to linger over the task. John lets the anticipation build, wets his lips with his teeth so they gleam, teasing Harold with the flat of his thumb moving over the slit and then down the shaft. Harold's hair is rumpled and sticking up, his glasses have slipped askew, his face is red, his lips are full and parted, and John is so proud to have worked him up so much that he can let go of the rest of the world for a little while at least. 

He slides his hand along the length of Harold's cock in one strong motion. "Would you like me to take care of this?" he says. 

"I'd be very grateful if you would," Harold says. John raises his eyebrows at him; it's nice to hear that edge of sarcasm in his voice again. 

Harold has given up on testing the ropes and now he lies helpless and desperate on the chaise, his expression fond and aggravated and so different from how he was this evening. John can't help himself. He puts his lips over the head of Harold's cock, tastes the salt and musk of Harold's desire, and hears Harold groan. When he looks up over Harold's belly, John can see Harold's eyelids have fluttered closed. John pushes himself upward and angles his throat so that he can take Harold down deep. 

A decent amount of John's work in the CIA involved honey traps, and he's happy to put all that experience to good effect here with Harold. It helps that he really does enjoy this act and has enjoyed it with other men before, though best of all is making Harold feel good. He moves himself easily up and down Harold's cock, listening for the noises that tell him he's doing the right thing. Harold is not effusive during sex, so when John hears soft, desperate moans that tail off, it means Harold is close to coming. He cups Harold's balls, pulls the skin taut and strokes them with a thumb. There's a tension gathering in Harold's body now, rigid muscles in his legs and belly. 

"John, John, please," Harold says over and over in a thin, faraway voice. No more closed eyes now; he watches John arch over him, eyes wide as John draws back on his cock with his cheeks hollow. John goes deep, sees deep green silk before his eyes, and reaches under with two fingers to stroke Harold's perineum. That's enough to topple Harold over into orgasm with a cry that echoes through the empty library. He comes, and John swallows adeptly, still moving slowly on Harold's shaft, using his tongue behind the head, eking the orgasm out as long as he's able. Then he wraps careful fingers around Harold's softening cock and lies beside him on the edge of the chaise. Harold thrusts weakly into John's palm, gasping at the sensitivity of it but unable to stop himself. John wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, unfolds the blanket and throws it over the two of them, then leans in to kiss Harold again. 

They make out that way for a while, body to body, both of them warm under the blanket. John keeps an eye on Harold, waiting for him to come out of that blissful, mindless state he's in. He knows Harold is feeling tethered in more than just the physical when he starts predicting John's movements and sneaking in quick nips at any skin he reach. 

John stops him, cups his face to hold him still without hurting his neck. "You realise I'm less effective as an object of fear if I'm covered in hickeys, right?" 

"Mmm," says Harold, and rubs his cheek against John's palm, tries to catch a fingertip with his teeth. Then he sighs, wonderfully dishevelled, pink and rumpled and smiling. "You could always wear a tie." 

John traces Harold's lips and deftly avoids getting bitten. "Never going to happen. My boss is a soft touch."


End file.
